


Gap

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Adultery, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Ficlet, Hate Sex, M/M, Mild Humiliation, Rough Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The backroom version of Thomas’ relationship with Mr. Bates is... complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gap

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn’t historically accurate or properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“You like this, don’t you?” Bates hisses in his ear, and Thomas wonders vaguely what would happen if he really, truly said _no._

It would probably stop. And that’s the last thing in the world Thomas wants, so he says nothing, just snarls and turns his head away, opening his neck up to be bitten. Bates’ teeth sink into his skin like they want to draw blood, and Thomas tries not to moan, but that’s what he came for. He let himself be glared down and goaded outside, just like he always does after dark, when it’s raining and brewing and the grey clouds are bubbling like they’re going to start spitting lightning: the gods angry for their sinful coupling. Somehow that only makes it _better_. Thomas lets himself be pinned against the Abbey’s cold brick wall, and he lets his legs be spread, one thigh lifted to cling to Bates’ good hip. The cane isn’t needed when Bates has Thomas to lean on. Thomas lets his trousers be shoved down his hips, leaving more skin exposed to the rain. His hair is already slicked to his forehead, vision blurry and barely able to see past Bates’ shoulder. It’ll make them harder to spot. Bates shoves one rain-slicked finger right inside Thomas’ hole: no searching, no rubbing, no gentle preparation. It’s never anything but this: rough and fast. 

And Thomas _loves_ that, even if he’d never say it aloud, never give Bates any more satisfaction. Bates already has His Lordship and Anna and Mr. Carson and the whole damn staff at his beck and call—he doesn’t need to know he has Thomas too. But he fingers Thomas’ arse like he owns it and chuckles, “You love it, you foul little liar.” Thomas closes his eyes and pretends he doesn’t hear.

Bates is foul too. He’s the one that _chose_ this. Thomas never _wanted_ to be different, to be beaten and laughed at and told that he’s wrong. But Bates has a perfectly sweet woman to go home to, and still he drags Thomas down dark alleys by the hair and pins him against walls and fucks him brutally into the stone. Not that Thomas doesn’t understand, of course. Anna is an angel. She could never take this. And Mr. Bates is not-so-secretly a monster, even if only Thomas sees it. 

Bates shoves in a second finger and starts to scissor Thomas open, while Thomas grits his teeth and mutters, “Just do it already.” It’s not like Bates cares if Thomas rips or bleeds. He’s left Thomas with so many other bruises. But Bates ignores him anyway, roughly pries him wider, bit-by-bit, and Thomas grunts and clutches Bates’ damp shoulders like he’s going to push them apart at any second. 

When Bates’ fingers leave, his body’s grinding closer. He crushes the air out of Thomas’ chest with how close he pushes, beer gut flattening into Thomas’ taut stomach. Thomas knows he could find a better man. A hotter man. But he couldn’t find another that hates him so very much, that would pull his hair and mark his skin and shove him into the wall...

Bates fumbles with their pants, and Thomas stubbornly doesn’t help, just stares blearily into the rain and wonders, not for the first time, what the hell is wrong with him. He’s never really _looked_ at Bates naked, but he’s felt Bates’ cock enough to know it’s fat and veined and slightly crooked to the left. It nudges between Thomas’ cheeks like it’s got a mind of its own, and Thomas still doesn’t help. Bates should’ve bound his hands with his tie. He likes that better, really. Sometimes it’s good to feel helpless, particularly in things he’d rather be absolved of responsibility for. When he’s tied up, all he has to do is be still and take it. It’s easier than this; pretending he’s more useless than he is. 

“Prat,” Bates accuses, like he knows. Thomas doesn’t deny it, just lifts an eyebrow and lets it roll off. Bates lines them up and shoves inside in one go; Thomas winces and grunts in pain. The bulbous head pops in and pushes, doesn’t wait, doesn’t piston carefully in and out, just pushes and _pushes_ while Thomas’ walls flex and try to accommodate. Bates runs sharp teeth over his neck again and hisses, “So tight...”

Thomas accuses, “You didn’t prepare me right.” He sounds sullen.

Bates taunts, “You didn’t prepare yourself,” and he sounds cruel. Thomas actually smirks over it; he was right about the man, even if no one else believes him. John Bates is nothing of an angel. 

Bates finally shoves his way fully inside and makes a fist in the top of Thomas’ hair, turning it around, the back of his skull grinding against the stone. Thomas can only hope Bates isn’t going to tug any chunks out again. He lets himself be held in place, but when Bates shoves a thick tongue into his mouth, he doesn’t kiss back. Somehow, he’d rather be used. Bates grinds into him and fucks him with tongue and cock, then pulls half out and bites his bottom lip. Bates slams inside hard enough to make Thomas scream, but that mouth covers him again and steals away the sound. 

He’s bitten in between thrusts, and each one stabs him back into the wall, until he’s sure the cheeks of his arse are red and they sting and it hurts, even more there than around his hole. Bates always finds the right spot, makes Thomas feel _good_ , but that doesn’t make the slide in and out any less of a strain, and every time Thomas hits the stone, he clenches on the rebound. He screams himself hoarse in no time at all, and then Bates can stop kissing him and just bites at his lips instead, leaving them swollen and split in more than one place. Thomas’ mouth fills with blood and rainwater. The one foot he has on the ground loses purchase, and Bates hikes him up, somehow, impossibly, fucks him hard against the wall with both his legs wrapped around Bates’ waist, and Thomas is reduced to a pleasure toy for a man he basically deplores. It makes him feel as filthy as the world thinks him.

It makes him hard. His cock is still half bound in his underwear, but he doesn’t touch it, won’t touch it—it’ll make him come too fast, and Bates’ll just taunt him. Bates doesn’t touch him, not there, anyway, just runs greedy hands up and down his sides, pulls his hair just to cause pain and digs into his waist just to leave marks. Thomas takes it all in a haze of pleasure-pain that has him building shamefully fast. He never really _wants_ to come from this; he’d rather sneak off to his room after, deny any part of it, touch himself to the thoughts of men he truly _likes_ , come all over his palm and pretend he’s never taken Bates’ cock in his hands or mouth or arse. But instead he’s trapped like this, and Bates bites a hard line up to his ear, nearly tears the lobe off and growls, “Tell me you love this.”

Thomas stubbornly says nothing, is given a particularly harsh stab that feels like it’ll split him in two, and cries out. Bates starts grinding his abused arse into the stone and snarls, “Tell me you love it, _Thomas._ ” Thomas shivers; Bates says his name like he’s _nothing_.

Thomas chokes and finds himself mumbling, too quiet to hear over the rain, “ _I love this._ ” Bates chuckles at his pain and kisses him faux-sweetly on the cheek, like rewarding him for being a good boy. He feels like dirt. 

He comes without being touched, topples over the edge just from having Bates’ heavy stomach rubbing into him and the humiliation burning his cheeks. He spills in his pants like an adolescent and wants to hate himself for it, but feels too good right now. The orgasm hits him hard and leaves him trembling. 

His convulsing arse milks out Bates, but Bates doesn’t come in him, rarely does; that’s a special treat for Anna. Bates pulls out so harshly that Thomas shrieks, and suddenly he’s lost the support holding him up, and he topples to the wet ground, the rain pelting down on him harder than ever. He looks up and closes his eyes just in time as his face is splattered in cum. A particularly large glob hits the bridge of his nose, and the rain washes it down either side, into the corners of his open mouth. He’s panting too hard to close it, and he nearly chokes, trying to wipe his lips off on his soaking sleeve even as his hair’s still being sprayed. 

He isn’t finished coughing and spluttering by the time Bates is done, straightening up and buckling himself up, looking thoroughly wrecked but not nearly so bad as Thomas. To everyone else, it’ll look like they had a fight, out in a storm too awful for anyone to bother interrupting. Thomas will look like he lost. 

Thomas has to wait outside for the rain to wash the rest of his shame away, while Bates hobbles away in a glow of smug pride. 

Thomas just runs a hand through his hair and wishes he had a cigarette.


End file.
